a Bomber Father
by rankamateur
Summary: Just a very,very very short story. About baseball.


The man drove up the driveway of the parking area fast -- too fast

" . . . . . a Bomber Father:

A very, very, very short story.

By rankamateur

Scarecrow and Mrs. King are the property of Warner Bros. and Shoot The Moon Enterprises LTD.

References to "The Mole" written by Cliff Gould.

Time: Early summer 1998.

The man drove up the driveway of the parking area fast -- too fast. If it hadn't been a rather high profile vehicle, he probably would have eighty-sixed the muffler.

He pulled into the first empty space and was out of the car like a shot.

As he started running across the lot towards the field, he could smell the faint aroma of baked goods.

And he could hear the shouts of the crowd. The taunts of 'no batter -- no batter' -from one side and the encouraging exhortations of the other side to 'get a hit!'.

Then heard the loud CRACK of a bat and the shouts of 'RUN HANK, RUN'.

No, not that Hank. This would be Henry Peterson, who lived a few blocks over, on Barbara Drive.

He slowed to a jog as he passed by the stands, searching for the faces of his family. Then he heard the unmistakable voice of his wife . . . .

"Get a hit, swee . . . . ah Billy, you can do it!"

Thank goodness she caught herself in time. You do not call the potential winning run – sweetheart in public!

The scoreboard read:

VISITORS 2 HOME 1

And it was the bottom of the 9th inning.

The moment of truth for everybody.

Turning towards the batters box he saw his pride and joy, standing on the left side of the plate, swinging the bat and looking intensely down the lane towards the pitcher. The expression on the boy's face clearly showed that he knew the fate of Western Civilization rested on his shoulders. It would all be decided – in this place – at this moment in time.

"Just meet the ball, Billy, don't try and kill it," he called out.

He could barely make out the little smile that momentarily registered. Then the youngster was once again all concentration.

"Ball one," called the umpire.

Batter -- batter -- no batter -- you can do it -- come on -- strike him out --

The conflicting sentiments and advice ricocheted around the stands and the field. The cacophony was enough to rattle the most seasoned professional.

And then -- another CRACK -- a veritable explosion of sound as the bat connected solidly with the ball.

"Go Billy --GO!" - every fan of the Arlington team was screaming.

The ball sailed over the head of the second baseman, dropping between the center and right fielders, where it took a wicked hop and then rolled all the way to the fence.

The man, well Henry, on second was off the instant the hit was made.

The batter rounded first and was headed for second base when the fielder finally got the ball and threw it to the infield. The shortstop, without much thought, relayed the ball, but his throw was wild and way wide and the third baseman was pulled far from the bag.

Henry was headed for home as Billy came to third.

"GO GO GO", the third base coach yelled.

Billy hit the bag, raising a little fountain of dust as he did so, and then increased his speed, pounding down the baseline.

Henry had crossed home plate. The score was now 2 to 2!

The third baseman had retrieved the ball. He turned and threw it to the catcher.

"SLIDE", the crowed roared.

And Billy, arriving at the same microsecond as the ball, did slide -- right into the catcher – who lost his balance – fell over backwards -- And dropped the ball.

"SAFE!" The umpire moved his arms in the traditional gesture.

The Home crowd went wild and the team's bench emptied. The parents poured out of the stands and ran to their various progeny.

Amanda Stetson and Dotty West managed to get to Billy. They kept the hugs brief, so as not to embarrass their little hero.

"Sweetheart," Amanda called to her husband, who was moving quickly towards her, "did you see that -- did you see what our son did? He won the game! And look at you. You're not even wearing your lucky hat." She pulled a somewhat beat-up looking baseball cap from her purse and handed it to Lee who immediately put it on.

Lee pounded his boy on the back. "Great job, Bill!"

As he stood there, high-fiving the other fathers and joining in the assurances that this year they were going all the way to the playoffs - heck, all the way to the pennant, he could hear a little voice, way in the back of his mind saying something like . . . . " I am not, nor do I ever intend to be, a Bomber father."

'Man,' a second little voice chimed in, 'that other Lee Stetson was a real jerk.'

The new, improved Lee Stetson just smiled as he adjusted his baseball cap - the one with the big "**B**" on it.

end


End file.
